THE FLOOD OF YEAR. 




W I LL1 AN^ C U LLEN fp R\^NT 



NEW YORK 

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 

1884 







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^ N W 



Copyright by 
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS, 

=877° 



THE ILLUSTRATIONS 
DESIGNED AND ENGRAVED 

BY 

W. J. LINTON. 




A Mighty Hand, from an exhaustless urn, 
Pours forth the never-ending Flood of Years 
Among the nations. How the rushing waves 
Bear all before them ! On their foremost edge, 
And there alone, is Life ; the Present there 
Tosses and foams and fills the air with roar 
Of mingled noises. 



THE FLOOD OF YEARS. 



There are they who toil, 
And they who strive, and they who feast, and they 
Who hurry to and fro. The sturdy hind — 
Woodman and delver with the spade — are there, 
And busy artisan beside his bench, 
And pallid student with his written roll. 
A moment on the mounting billow seen — 
The flood sweeps over them and they are gone. 
There groups of revelers, whose brows are twined 
With roses, ride the topmost swell awhile, 



THE FLOOD OF YEARS. 



And as they raise their flowing cups to touch 

The clinking brim to brim, are whirled beneath 

The waves and disappear. I hear the jar 

Of beaten drums, and thunders that break forth 

From cannon, where the advancing billow sends 

Up to the sight long files of armed men, 

That hurry to the charge through flame and smoke. 

The torrent bears them under, whelmed and hid, 

Slayer and slain, in heaps of bloody foam. 

Down go the steed and rider ; the plumed chief 

Sinks with his followers ; the head that wears 

The imperial diadem goes down beside 

The felon's with cropped ear and branded cheek. 



THE FLOOD OF YEARS. 



A funeral train — the torrent sweeps away 

Bearers and bier and mourners. By the bed 

Of one who dies men gather sorrowing, 

And women weep aloud ; the flood rolls on ; 

The wail is stifled, and the sobbing group 

Borne under. Hark to that shrill sudden shout — 

The cry of an applauding multitude 

Swayed by some loud-tongued orator, who wields 

The living mass as if he were its soul. 

The waters choke the shout and all is still. 

Lo, next, a kneeling crowd and one who spreads 

The hands in prayer ; the engulfing wave o'ertakes 

And swallows them and him. 



THE FLOOD OF YEARS. 



A sculptor wields 
The chisel, and the stricken marble grows 
To beauty ; at his easel, eager-eyed, 
A painter stands, and sunshine at his touch 
Gathers upon the canvas, and life glows ; 
A poet, as he paces to and fro, 
Murmurs his sounding lines. Awhile they ride 
The advancing billow, till its tossing crest 
Strikes them and flings them under while their tasks 
Are yet unfinished. See a mother smile 
On her young babe that smiles to her again — 
The torrent wrests it from her arms ; she shrieks, 
And weeps, and midst her tears is carried down. 



THE FLOOD OF YEARS. 



A beam like that of moonlight turns the spray 
To glistening pearls ; two lovers, hand in hand, 
Rise on the billowy swell and fondly look 
Into each others eyes. The rushing flood 
Flings them apart ; the youth goes down ; the 

maid, 
With hands outstretched in vain and streaming 

eyes, 
Waits for the next high wave to follow him. 
An aged man succeeds ; his bending form 
Sinks slowly ; mingling with the sullen stream 
Gleam the white locks and then are seen no more, 

Lo, wider grows the stream ; a sea-like flood 
Saps earth's walled cities ; massive palaces 
Crumble before it; fortresses and towers 



THE FLOOD OF YEARS. 



Dissolve in the swift waters ; populous realms 
Swept by the torrent, see their ancient tribes 
Engulfed and lost, their very languages 
Stifled and never to be uttered more. 

I pause and turn my eyes and, looking back, 
Where that tumultuous flood has passed, I see 
The silent Ocean of the Past, a waste 
Of waters weltering over graves, its shores 
Strewn with the wreck of fleets, where mast and 

hull 
Drop away piecemeal ; battlemented walls 
Frown idly, green with moss, and temples stand 
Unroofed, forsaken by the worshippers. 
There lie memorial stones, whence time has gnawed 
The graven legends, thrones of kings o'erturned, 
The broken altars of forgotten gods, 



THE FLOOD OF YEARS. 



Foundations of old cities, and long streets 
Where never fall of human foot is heard 
Upon the desolate pavement. I behold 
Dim glimmerings of lost jewels far within 
The sleeping waters, diamond, sardonyx, 
Ruby and topaz, pearl and chrysolite, 
Once glittering at the banquet on fair brows 
That long ago were dust ; and all around, 
Strewn on the waters of that silent sea, 
Are withering bridal wreaths, and glossy locks 
Shorn from fair brows by loving hands, and scrolls 
O'erwritten, — haply with fond words of love 
And vows of friendship — and fair pages flung 
Fresh from the printer's engine. There they lie 
A moment and then sink away from sight. 



THE FLOOD OF YEARS. 



I look, and the quick tears are in my eyes, 
For I behold, in every one of these, 
A blighted hope, a separate history 
Of human sorrow, telling of dear ties 
Suddenly broken, dreams of happiness 
Dissolved in air, and happy days, too brief, 
That sorrowfully ended, and I think 
How painfully must the poor heart have beat 
In bosoms without number, as the blow 
Was struck that slew their hope or broke their 
peace. 

Sadly I turn, and look before, where yet 
The Flood must pass, and I behold a mist 



THE FLOOD OF YEARS. 



Where swarm dissolving forms, the brood of Hope, 
Divinely fair, that rest on banks of flowers 
Or wander among rainbows, fading soon 
And reappearing, haply giving place 
To shapes of grisly aspect, such as Fear 
Molds from the idle air ; where serpents lift 
The head to strike, and skeletons stretch forth 
The bony arm in menace. Further on 
A belt of darkness seems to bar the way, 
Long, low and distant, where the Life that Is 
Touches the Life to Come. The Flood of Years 
Rolls toward it, near and nearer. It must pass 
That dismal barrier. What is there beyond ? 
Hear what the wise and good have said. 



THE FLOOD OF YEARS. 



Beyond 
That belt of darkness still the years roll on 
More gently, but with not less mighty sweep. 
They gather up again and softly bear 
All the sweet lives that late were overwhelmed 
And lost to sight — all that in them was good, 
Noble, and truly great and worthy of love — 
The lives of infants and ingenuous youths, 
Sages and saintly women who have made 
Their households happy — all are raised and borne 
By that great current in its onward sweep, 
Wandering and rippling with caressing waves 
Around green islands, fragrant with the breath 
Of flowers that never wither. 



THE FLOOD OF YEARS. 



So they pass, 
From stage to stage, along the shining course 
Of that fair river broadening like a sea. 
As its smooth eddies curl along their way, 
They bring old friends together ; hands are clasped 
In joy unspeakable ; the mother's arms 
Again are folded round the child she loved 
And lost. Old sorrows are forgotten now, 
Or but remembered to make sweet the hour 
That overpays them ; wounded hearts that bled 
Or broke are healed forever. 



THE FLOOD OF YEARS. 



In the room 
Of this grief-shadowed Present there shall be 
A Present in whose reign no grief shall gnaw 
The heart, and never shall a tender tie 
Be broken — in whose reign the eternal Change 
That waits on growth and action shall proceed 
With everlasting Concord hand in hand. 




H248 78 535 



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